Pink Shirt

The shirt was obviously red. Dull, yes; but clearly red. No one who had enough time to inspect the shirt and its’ color could possibly mistake it for pink. Under normal circumstances, a red shirt would be perfectly acceptable—welcome, in fact. Pink may have been her favorite color, but red was a second choice that she could live with.

However, a red shirt would not match the pink and black and white skirt that her mother had already purchased for her earlier in the week. No, a red shirt would not do. It would not do at all.

She was confused at the notion—how on earth could her mother have picked up this shirt that was clearly and significantly the wrong color? Yet here she was handing her a folded cotton shirt, smile wide as can be, looking at her with the expectation of excitement.

And it was that smile, full of an innocent and foolish hope that drove her to lie. She felt in a deep and unknown chasm of being that she could not simply tell her mother that the shirt was the wrong color. The shirt was not a shirt. A child should not know more than her parents, because parents know everything.

And so—the shirt would no longer be red. It would be pink

The red shirt paired with the pink and black and white skirt was a clash of unimpressive proportions. And she wore it ashamedly, pretending it was she who made the mistake, simply pulling it from the drawer without paying attention.

No one needed to know that the red shirt was meant to be pink.